At a Loss
by ncfan
Summary: Orodreth tries to explain Aman to Meresír, while avoiding talking about why the Noldor came to Beleriand.


I own nothing.

* * *

"You speak of it as though it is some sort of paradise."

Meresír leans over the side of the bed, tapping the bell jar on the table beside it and looking at the glass elanor flower inside of it with a fascinated look on her face. It was one of the few things Artaresto was able to save on the Helcaraxë; all of his books were burned for warmth. The Sindar and the other peoples of Beleriand have yet to learn how to make glass and manipulate it; it tends to fascinate anyone who looks at it.

Artaresto looks over at her and frowns. "Could you repeat that last part?"

She shakes her head. "_Paradise, _Artaresto. Honestly, you say the King gives you odd looks whenever you talk, but if you would learn to speak Doriathrin Sindarin like Findaráto and Artanis, I think he would stop."

"I've not the skill with language that they possess. And what is wrong with Mithrim Sindarin, anyways?"

"So I've noticed. And you know the King doesn't like the Mithrim. But you haven't answered my question."

Artanis wasn't the only one who managed to find a sweetheart in Menegroth, though somehow Artaresto suspects that Celeborn isn't nearly as inquisitive as Meresír. No, Celeborn almost certainly doesn't ask Artanis nearly as many questions straying into dangerous waters as Meresír asks Artaresto. Of course, he also isn't nearly so pretty as she is, so it likely all evens out in the end.

"I…" Artaresto smiles faintly, staring up at the ceiling. He's sitting at an odd angle in the chair in the corner of the room, and the back feels as though it's digging into his spine. He would shift his weight, or even go lie down, but it's all he can do to stay awake and alert, and he's afraid that physical comfort would put him to sleep. "It _was _paradise, Meresír."

Meresír makes a faint laughing sound in the back of her throat. She pushes her brown hair away from her shoulders, turning to look at him more closely. "Yes, so I've gathered. You Noldor call the Undying Lands 'Aman', 'Blessed'. There's very little I can think of that more clearly displays how you think of the home you left behind. But you have explained nothing to me about your life there."

What is there to say?

Artaresto closes his eyes, and remembers the parents he left behind. He remembers Angaráto's wife, Findaráto's betrothed, his aunts Findis, Anairë, Nerdanel, his uncle Mercandil, though he barely knew him. He remembers the gold-and-silver days; he remembers that he was born and grew to adulthood in eternal day, never having to suffer through the dark of night in a blighted world.

Laurelin's golden light would set the white stones of Tirion ablaze. The light of the Mindon Eldaliéva could be seen from even so far away as the eastern shores of Aman. The spires of Taniquetil soared into the clouds, and the city of the Minyar was alive with the sound of bells tolling and people singing in the streets. Alqualondë sang as well, as her people sang (_And when her people were slaughtered, the cheerful songs turned to mournful dirges_). In the summers, Eärwen would take him and his siblings to Alqualondë for the better part of a month, and Artaresto learned how to fish and sail from his uncles on Tol Eressëa, and how to swim and read the map of the sky from his mother.

There's all that and so much more he could say. But it's all tainted by the memories of what came after—the blighted darkness that fell over Aman; Finwë's murder and funeral; Fëanáro's oath; the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, Artaresto's sick shame at the sight of his dead kin and the Noldor's theft of their ships, the crossing of the Helcaraxë and what they lost there, the settling by Lake Mithrim only to eventually discover that even that place was not safe either.

"There… There were wide, open lands, and green forests. You could stand outside, atop a hill, and in every direction you looked, you could see nothing but green."

Twirling the glass elanor in her hand—Artaresto has no fear that she will drop it; Meresír has a very good grip—Meresír tilts her head, frowning bemusedly. "You can describe many parts of Beleriand in much the same way, Artaresto."

Artaresto remembers the singers of Alqualondë. "The sea was a dazzling shade of blue, the foamy waves white-capped. The white shores glittered with stones and shells." He remembers hearing their terrified cries from far off in the dark.

There begins to come into her brown eyes a distinctly dubious look. "I think that you'll find that the sea looks much the same in Ennor, and that the seashores are much the same as well. Were the Undying Lands really so different?"

"Yes, yes they were."

He would love to be able to find the words to explain it to her. Meresír says that he is Lachend, 'flame-eyed', a name Artaresto has sometimes heard other natives of Beleriand use to describe their new Noldorin neighbors. She can see the light of the Two Trees in his eyes; that's all Artaresto can suppose she means. Meresír can see the mingled light of Laurelin and Telperion reflected in his eyes, can surely see that _that much_ about life in Aman was something very different than life here in Beleriand. How can he really make her see that Laurelin and Telperion made all of the difference, that yes, Rána and Vása give off much the same light, but that it's not the same?

Artaresto starts to wonder if it isn't because of what came next. It must really be because of what came next, the unrest that overtook the Noldor, Moringotto's lies, the Darkening, his grandfather's murder, the Exile and the Kinslaying and the theft of the ships. Those terrible memories must be making him tongue-tied, and in truth, every good memory he has of home pales in comparison to the memories of darkness and terror and blood.

"My parents are still there," he says quietly. "My father, Arafinwë, and my mother Eärwen. My grandparents Olwë and Ránelindë, my uncles Nendil and Élairo. My grandparents Finwë—" not exactly a lie; Aman is where his ashes remain, and the Halls of Waiting where his soul lies "—and Indis, and my aunts Findis and Anairë and Nerdanel, and Aunt Lalwen's husband Mercandil, though to be honest I barely knew him. We were…" He falters. "…We were happy there."

"Ah, there it is." Artaresto looks at Meresír in surprise, and she smiles knowingly. "The difference is not in the makeup of the land, but in the sorts of experiences you had while there. I had a feeling it was something like that."

Artaresto shrugs and grimaces half-heartedly. "I suppose it might be something like that."

"But this begs the question." Meresír puts the glass elanor back beneath the bell jar, and folds her hands in her lap. Her expression has, with but a few small adjustments, gone from knowing to serious and questioning. "If you were so much happier in the Undying Lands, why would you come here?"

He stares at her for a long time, and says nothing. In such a situation like this, in Aman, Artaresto would have chosen to look out a window. But Doriathrin architecture, at least in the massive cave structure of Menegroth, does not allow for windows, and his gaze instead turns to a tapestry.

A tumult of words build up in his throat. Artaresto remembers the terror of darkness, the pain of loss, the guilt of the blood shed by the Noldor, for even if he did not shed the blood of his mother's people himself, he did nothing to stop his fellow Noldor from stealing the Swan-ships afterwards. He remembers the anger he felt at their abandonment in Araman by Fëanáro and his sons, remembers that even now, his anger is not gone. But he will say nothing. The Noldor have kept as quiet about the events of the Flight, the Kinslaying in particular, as they can, for fear of Thingol's reaction. He is Olwë's older brother, Olwë's people are also his people, and there is no telling how he would react to the Kinslaying, only to say that he would not react well, and would likely not care that not all of the Noldor spilled blood at Alqualondë.

And, if he's honest with himself, Artaresto does not want to see the look on Meresír's face, to discover what the Noldor did as they marched out of Aman.

"I… I would rather talk about something else, if you don't mind, Meresír," he says quietly.

Meresír looks at him, silent, her gaze piercing. He knows that she knows that there is more to this than what he's told her. For a terrible moment, Artaresto is afraid that she'll press, that she'll insist on knowing more, because if she insists he doesn't see how he'll be able to avoid telling her, but mercifully, Meresír nods. She begins to speak of what Beleriand was like under the stars, before the days of Rána and Vása, and Artaresto lets her voice, reminiscent and hypnotic, ease him away from memory.

* * *

Artaresto—Orodreth  
Findaráto—Finrod  
Artanis—Galadriel  
Angaráto—Angrod  
Fëanáro—Fëanor  
Moringotto—Morgoth

Minyar—the first clan of the Elves of Cuiviénen, the precursors of the Vanyar; named for Imin and Iminyë, the original Vanyar; many Vanyar still refer to themselves as Minyar  
Ennor—Middle-Earth (Sindarin)  
Lachend—'flame-eyed'; a name often used by the Sindar to describe the Elves who dwelt in Aman during the years of the Trees (plural: Lechind) (Sindarin)  
Rána—The Exilic name for the Moon, signifying 'The Wanderer' (Quenya)  
Vása—The Exilic name for the Sun, signifying 'The Consumer' (Quenya)


End file.
